


The Smell of Blood

by tigbit



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mild torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bolg knows the smell of blood. </p><p>(A possible turn of events for Legolas after the end of tDoS)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I blended events from the book and the movie, but it's mostly movie. Enjoy!

Bolg knows the smell of blood. It has never been unfamiliar to him; even his earliest memories recall the rusty tang of it on axes and halberds, the way the scent lingered long after a battle or pit fight. It is a smell he seeks always, a desire that follows him to his dreams. 

He has tasted it, of course. Like many others of his kind, Bolg believes the taste of victim blood gives him strength. All blood is different. Man-blood is heady, laced with a lingering sourness. Children of men taste sweeter. Dwarf blood is heavier and pungent, its heat slow to leave. He has heard elf-blood is noxious—a beautiful burn that bites like sunlight and scorches throats and bellies for days unending. He will soon know the truth, for while the elf princeling slowly gains ground—the hooves of his horse pounding first against the dock and then upon the earth—Bolg is nearly to his hunt pack. They will be waiting.

He runs his tongue over the sharpest of his teeth, splitting the flesh, and looks forward to the hours ahead. 

\--

The elf is without fear, quick as the arrows he shoots. He is a vicious fighter, but he is alone and cannot hold back such a large assault. Ten, twelve, fifteen of them lie dead or wounded before he is captured—blades taken and bow quickly burned as Bolg laughs from his warg.

They string him up against a tree, close enough to the fire for an unpleasant heat to slick the elf’s skin with sweat. Blood drips steadily from his nose again, and Bolg is not the only one to notice: Some of the braver orcs sneak in for a quick taste, thumbing at the elf’s face until their fingers are sloppy wet, then hissing as they suck away their prize. 

Bolg lets this happen with indifference. He will take his turn and drink his fill, but not on the outskirts of Lake Town. There is time enough to wait; The King Under the Mountain will soon be dead, if the dragon has his way. And should Smaug be slain, Erebor will surely fall under assault; no amount of pretty jewels or dwarven armor will save Thorin from Bolg’s blade. Until then, he cares little for the elf’s fate. Let his brothers have their fun. 

“Get him to speak,” is all he says, before finding his scouts. 

Useless as they are, his orcs have somehow managed to discover the Elvenking’s plans. 

“He will not move, my lord,” says one, picking at the scabs on his wrists. He shuffles in place as he speaks, his eyes twitching at every gust of wind. “The gates are shut. No one in, no one out. Fewer elves patrol the outer borders. Their king looks to his own kingdom, not to us.”

Bolg snorts, pleased. “Have they found our caves?”

Another orc speaks up, already shaking his head. “No, my lord.” He pauses, licking his pierced lip when he hears the elf princeling’s first scream. “The caves are safe. No nasty elves.”

“And the spiders?”

“They like our treats,” the first one speaks again, grinning, and turns to look back at the fire. They are close enough to see the cluster of orcs surrounding the elf, but far enough to only guess at their actions. There are no more screams, but Bolg can see the shadows of knives dancing on the ground. A strong captive, then. “If that one keeps wrigglin’, we can use him, too.”

The reports continue. Bolg learns that the orcs from the Grey Mountains have gathered in the north, leaving Mount Gundabad in preparation for attack. They wait for command. He learns that Thorin and his dwarf filth have indeed reached the Lonely Mountain, although Smaug has not yet stirred. Perhaps they wait for their brothers still in Lake Town, not knowing that is a false hope: Bolg remembers the sick one, his delicious screaming and torment echoing on the waters, and knows he will soon be dead. No one survives a Morgul shaft; they will never make it to the mountain. 

“Master,” one of the fire-orcs hobbles closer, his gloves stained dark. His eyes track Bolg’s blade, leery. “We poked him and we sliced him up pretty. He bleeds but he will not speak. What are your orders?”

Bolg snarls and leaves his scouts behind, backhanding the messenger on the way to the fire.

“Leave,” he barks, kicking the shins of the ones that linger. They scamper away. “Pack up, if your empty skulls can manage it. We make for the caves.” Orders given, he turns to face the prisoner. 

The elf is stone-faced, eyes burning as they focus on the fire. His tunic is no longer whole: it is shredded in places, burnt in others, and altogether bloody. The air stinks of it, and Bolg feels a clench in his belly at the sight. He tempers himself. If there is information to be had from the elf, he would hear it first. 

“Elf-scum.” Westron feels dirty on his tongue. The shape of the words anger him, too clumsy and soft. “Silence will not free you. Speak and I may end your suffering.” 

There is no response. The elf keeps his gaze on the flames, breathing shallow. 

Bolg eyes one of the deepest gashes on the elf’s leg; it is angry and red, the edges black with dirt. He nudges it with his heel and laughs when the elf’s fingers claw at the dirt. Even more pressure and the elf clenches his eyes, but he does not speak. Bolg can see the scream lurking in the rigid set of his shoulders and the clench of his teeth; it pleases him. 

He removes his leg. The elf gasps, eyes open and wetter than before. 

“Speak,” Bolg says, and it is not a question. 

The elf spits at his feet. 

Bolg waits, realizing the rest of the camp has gone silent. “You think your silence saves you. It will not. Neither will it save the she-elf who lingers on the lake.” Bolg turns to the shadows behind him, signaling for Grimluk. “My brothers will soon feast on her flesh. No words of yours will save her, then.”

“Tauriel will slaughter you before your strike falls.” Finally: angry, fierce words, loud in the woods. The elf looks at Bolg, his face twisted in disgust. “She is beyond your skill.”

There is a beat before Bolg stalks closer, squatting until the heat of the elf’s breath falls upon his face. He reaches out a finger and lightly thumbs off the crusted blood beneath a white chin, a nose, a cheek. It is a gesture he has seen human women do for their young, something that speaks of sweetness and care. He mimics it as best he can, rubbing away the whole of the redness before reaching to smooth back the elf’s hair. Chunks of silver blond have escaped their braids; sweat has plastered it to skin and Bolg touches it with dirty fingers, the strands catching on his armored wrist. The princeling endures silently, but it is not long before he begins to murmur in his accursed tongue. Hushed curses, without a doubt, and Bolg gives an approving growl, not stopping until he is pleased. When he is finished, he looks upon his work. 

He stands, satisfied to see the elf’s brows knit together, the fear and confusion now plainly clear. The wait stretches on and Bolg knows he has made the right choice.

“You will watch her die,” he says, final, and the camp is still silent.

They cannot stop the elf from shouting now; the tree moans as the bonds are tested, his curses ringing loud into the night. 

Walking away, Bolg gives into temptation. He licks his fingers one by one, and the burn is as delicious as they say.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I had grand ideas for this. This was originally the introduction to a longer fic that focused on emotionally torturing Kili and Tauriel back in Lake Town (thus Bolg sending for Grimluk), but I lost steam. :-/


End file.
